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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27587279">muscle memory</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyharlot/pseuds/candyharlot'>candyharlot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accidents, Exes, Fist Fights As Foreplay, Friends to Lovers, Getting Back Together, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pianist Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating will change, Sex On A Piano Forté, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violinist Felix Hugo Fraldarius, eventual polyamory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:00:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,754</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27587279</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyharlot/pseuds/candyharlot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after leaving home and not looking back, Felix is faced with a decision: stay on another year with the Enbarr Philharmonic Orchestra, or return to Fhirdiad to take up his post as first-chair violinist with the Fhirdiad Symphony—a seat that could be his, should he decide to return. Only, he doesn’t want it—not unless his ex-best-friend-slash-boyfriend, Dimitri Blaiddyd, decides to get his shit together and take up the post he's trained for his entire life: concertmaster.</p><p>After receiving a troubling phone call from Rodrigue, Felix puts his life on hold and returns home. If he's to move forward, he must face his past, and reconcile his feelings for a Dimitri he barely recognizes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius &amp; Bernadetta von Varley, Felix Hugo Fraldarius &amp; Edelgard von Hresvelg, Felix Hugo Fraldarius &amp; Ingrid Brandl Galatea &amp; Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius &amp; Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, Felix Hugo Fraldarius &amp; Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea &amp; Sylvain Jose Gautier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>muscle memory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Um—Felix?”</p><p>Felix startles in the middle of a down-bow—winces as the taut, freshly rosined hair scratches against his violin’s E-string. “For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. Then, eyeing the figure hiding behind the door, the snaps<em>: “What?"</em></p><p>Bernadetta steps into the light, eyes wide and glassy, cheeks flushed, hands fisted in the hem of her threadbare lavender sweater. “Shit.” Felix deflates, untucking the violin from under his chin and resting it on his collarbone. “Listen, I’m—"</p><p>A tiny, distressed whimper erupts out of Bernadetta and Felix pinches the bridge of his nose. <em> Too late. </em></p><p>“I am so-so-so-<em> so </em> sorry, Felix—I tried knocking, I promise! It’s just—you’ve been practicing for hours, so I thought—”</p><p>“S’fine,” Felix mumbles. “What do you need?”</p><p>Bernadetta bites her lip. “Well, the maestro asked me to fetch you,” she says. “She wants to talk to you before rehearsal starts. And it’s already—” she checks her smartwatch, “three twenty-three, so…”</p><p>Felix scoffs as he twists the knob at the end of his bow, releasing the tension. How typical of Edelgard, to send someone to <em> fetch </em> him rather than coming here herself. And instead of sending, say, Hubert, who Felix couldn’t give less of a fuck about offending, she sent Bernadetta—a.k.a. the very <em> last </em> person Felix wants on the receiving end of his, as Hubert snidely refers to it, “attitude problem.”</p><p>Then again, if Hubert <em> had </em>been the one to interrupt him just now, Felix would’ve already shoved his bow up Hubert’s bony ass, and Edelgard knows it.</p><p>“Tell her I’m busy,” Felix says, because he’d rather not let Edelgard see how frustrated he is right now. Two and a half hours of practice every morning and evening—and for what? So he could sound just as shit-tastic as he did a week ago?</p><p>He’s been practicing the same. Goddamn concerto. For three! <em> Months! </em></p><p>Three months, when in his sixteen years of playing the violin, it has never taken Felix longer than three <em> weeks </em> to learn even the most complex pieces, such as Loog’s magnum opus, <em> Azure Moon.</em> Yet this contemporary piece composed by Claude von Riegan—who, for some unfathomable reason, decided <em> Felix </em>was the only violinist on the continent who could do it justice—is making him want to grab his violin by its neck and hurl it against a wall.</p><p>And, honestly? If Claude had listened to Felix practice earlier, he probably would’ve smashed the violin over Felix’s head himself. Or, even worse: he would've given him a knowing smile and told him to take a vacation.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Felix—but I can’t,” Bernadetta replies, snapping Felix out of his downward spiral. “She insisted. It’s about your contract. At least, that’s what she was talking to Hubert about before I walked in.”</p><p>Felix grunts as he lowers his violin, bow and shoulder rest into their respective places inside the hard case at his feet, before latching it shut. “Go on ahead,” he says, and waves in the general direction of the door. “I’ll be there in a second.”</p><p>Bernadetta doesn’t move. “Actually, um. Felix,” she says, soft and serious enough to make Felix’s stomach flutter with dread. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Have you been feeling okay?”</p><p>Now it’s Felix’s turn to swallow, and his throat clicks audibly with the effort. How long has it been, since someone—other than Sylvain, drunk at 2 A.M.—asked him such a basic, personal question? It takes him a minute to summon the words, and his ears burn under Bernadetta’s scrutiny.</p><p>Eventually, Felix says: “Yeah. I’m fine.” He’s lying, of course—but what the hell is he supposed to tell her? The truth? </p><p>What even <em> is </em> the truth, anymore?</p><p>Felix bristles. “Why?”</p><p>“You’ve just been… I don’t know. Stressed? Distant? Like, more so than usual,” Bernadetta replies. “Every time Ferdinand and I invite you out for drinks after rehearsal lately, you’ve turned us down. And I was wondering if it’s because—well. I know we’re supposed to play in Fhirdiad in a couple of months, and—”</p><p>Felix’s fingers curl tight around the handle of his violin case, until his knuckles whiten, then crack.</p><p>“And <em> what?"</em> he snaps, and in the next breath he’s brushing past her, into the dark hallway. “Like I care.”</p><p>“Felix,<em> wait!”  </em></p><p>Bernadetta trots behind him, the low heels of her shoes clicking against the linoleum as she matches Felix’s relentless pace. “I only meant—I know you don’t like talking about your past—Felix, slow <em> down!"</em></p><p>By the time they reach Edelgard’s “office,” a repurposed rehearsal room on the basement level of the venue, Bernadetta is out of breath and Felix’s shoulders quiver with tension. He can’t possibly play like this. Hopefully whatever Edelgard has to say won’t take long, and he’ll have a chance to unwind before rehearsal starts.</p><p>“I’m just—I’m worried about you, okay? We all are,” Bernadetta pants, and Felix pointedly ignores the way her eyebrows pinch her tiny forehead, because it makes him feel even <em> more </em>like an asshole. “I mean—I know we’re not super close, but I’d hoped—”</p><p>“Bernadetta,” Felix says, now far too exasperated to be angry. “Breathe. I’m fine, all right? Let it go.”</p><p>Bernadetta stares at him, and he watches as her heart-shaped face contorts into a pout.</p><p>“Okay. But only if you come out with us next time,” she mumbles, and Felix sighs, because he knows he hasn’t heard the last of this conversation. He ruffles her hair, hoping it’ll placate her for the time being.</p><p>“See you in the pit,” he says, and doesn’t bother knocking before he barges into Edelgard’s office, where she and Hubert are engaged in a heated debate. He clicks the door shut behind him, and waits.</p><p>“I apologize, Miss Hresvelg, but I cannot justify spending such a large portion of our budget on—”</p><p>“Hubert,” Edelgard counters, “Once again, I fear you are failing to grasp the importance of—”</p><p>“I understand the importance of it, truly I do. I cannot, however, justify the <em> expense,</em>” Hubert says with a great sigh, as if he is carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders rather than running the administrative side of a private orchestra. “Pardon my candor, but I feel it is my duty to remind you—”</p><p>Felix slams the door shut behind him yet again, hard enough this time that the glass panel rattles, and the room falls silent.</p><p>“You asked for me?”</p><p>Edelgard’s eyes slide beyond Hubert, and land on Felix. And while she’s able to coach her expression back to its usual placid state within seconds, it’s time enough for Felix to catch a glimpse of her constricted pupils—the only evidence of the feral beast he knows is lurking just beneath the surface.</p><p>“Ah, yes. Felix,” she says. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” Edelgard gives him a tight smile, and Felix resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Hubert, could we revisit this discussion tomorrow? You’ve given me plenty to think about.”</p><p>Hubert rises from his seat across from Edelgard and clears his throat. He pins Felix with a glare as he straightens his tweed vest.</p><p>“Of course. You know where to find me,” he says, inclining his head to Edelgard. Then he turns towards Felix once more, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses further up his nose as he considers him. “Fraldarius,” he sneers.</p><p>Felix gives a curt nod in response before Hubert slips past him, out the door, leaving Felix alone with Edelgard.</p><p>“Please. Have a seat,” Edelgard says, motioning at the distressed leather chair Hubert just vacated. “Would you like a coffee or tea? I was just about to make one for myself.”</p><p>“I’ll pass,” Felix replies, lowering himself into the chair and his violin case to the floor beside him.</p><p>“Very well.” Edelgard plucks a sugar cube from the jar next to the Keurig using a pair of small tongs, and Felix shakes his head. Once a rich girl, always a rich girl. Even if her office smells like it needs new sheetrock, and there are water stains on the ceiling, neither has stopped her from infusing the space with the same poised elegance she’s praised for by critics and fans.</p><p>“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Edelgard asks, taking her first sip of coffee. “Since we’ve spoken like this. A little over a year, if my memory serves.”</p><p>“Probably,” Felix replies, and begins to pick rosin dust out from under his fingernails. He glances up only when Edelgard moves to perch on the edge of her desk, close enough for him to catch a whiff of lavender.</p><p>“Right. I’ll get to the point,” she says, and sets her coffee down beside her. “As you know, part of my job as a conductor is to keep tabs on the emotional and mental well-being of the musicians in the orchestra. Even when they side-step every attempt I make at doing so,” her eyes flash, “I must persevere. Which is why—”</p><p>“Which is why you sent Bernadetta,” Felix drawls. “Because you knew I’d come if she asked. If this is about my contract—”</p><p>“Tell me, Felix. And be honest,” Edelgard cuts him off with infuriating ease, and Felix exhales through his nose. “Are you happy here?”</p><p>Felix scoffs. “What kind of bullshit question is that?” he asks. “Since when do you care about whether I’m <em> happy? </em>If you want an honest answer, you should be paying me more.”</p><p>Edelgard stares at him for a long, drawn-out moment, and as Felix stares back, he wonders what his life would be like if he were half as good at concealing his thoughts and feelings. Who knows, maybe if he were more practiced in the fine art of keeping his mouth shut, things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did. Maybe he wouldn’t be here, in this room, thousands of miles between him and the place he once called home.</p><p>“I would be happy to discuss your salary with Byleth at the next board meeting,” Edelgard says evenly. “If that is your chief complaint.”</p><p>Felix swallows. Shakes his head. “I knew what I was signing up for,” he replies. “I joined for the experience, not the paycheck. Anyone else here would say the same.”</p><p>Edelgard slowly tilts her head to the side and her long white hair cascades over her shoulder.</p><p>“Actually, no. They wouldn’t,” she says, blunt as ever. “You see, none of your peers had offers trickling in from every private orchestra and conservatory in Fódlan at the time of their interview. If they had, it’s unlikely they would have chosen this path. For many, this was their first choice, rather than their escape plan.”</p><p>Felix resists the urge to fidget, to scowl, because doing so would be to lose whatever mind-game Edelgard has cleverly tricked him into playing.</p><p>“What’s your point?”</p><p>“My point is,” Edelgard says, tilting her head to the side, “I can’t help but wonder if you are still content with the choice you made.”</p><p>Felix takes a deep breath. <em> A choice. </em> Is <em> that </em> what Edelgard thinks?</p><p>How laughable.</p><p>“Even before—” Felix swallows. “Even before my brother died, I always wanted to travel, see the world. Learn from it,” he tells her. “Masterclasses, healthcare benefits, pensions...it’s all a set-up. The next thing you know, you’re tenured, trapped. <em> Complacent.</em>”</p><p>Felix leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I never wanted that life,” he says. His eyes flick up to hers, unblinking. “Neither did you. It’s why <em> you </em> left, isn’t it?”</p><p>Edelgard tosses her empty coffee cup into the bin beside her desk with enough force to nearly topple it over.</p><p>Victory blooms in Felix’s chest. Finally, he’s struck a nerve.</p><p>“Not entirely, no,” Edelgard replies, quiet. “Unlike you, Faerghus was never my home to begin with. After my mother died, there was nothing keeping me there, aside from painful memories and bitter cold. It was never a question of if I would leave, but when.” </p><p>Edelgard’s shoulders twitch and Felix swallows the tangled mess of guilt crawling up his throat. </p><p>“Don’t get me wrong. I will always be grateful for Lambert’s kindness, for the home he and Dimitri offered me when I had none. But even they knew I would leave, because I belong<em> here. </em>In Adrestia.” Edelgard meets Felix’s eyes, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. “I’m sure you knew it too, on some level. Even though we barely knew each other then.”</p><p>Felix nods, frowning at the hazy, sunlit memories he has of Edelgard, of the mild Faerghus summer he spent angry-crying in hall closets, irrationally jealous over how some girl he’d never met before got to<em> live </em> with Dimitri, see him all the time, whereas Felix was limited to lunches at orchestra camp three days a week.</p><p><em> Dimitri. </em>Felix closes that particular door, turns the key in the lock before any other memories float to the surface.</p><p>Edelgard takes a breath, presumably to compose herself, and Felix glances up. </p><p>“You see, Felix, I also knew what I was signing up for,” she says. “When I found out about Glenn’s death, how your father was already pressuring you to compete for his vacant seat in the Fhirdiad Symphony, I put you on my shortlist of potential recruits. Even though Hubert saw you as a flight risk, a liability, I didn’t care. Do you know why?”</p><p>Felix holds her gaze. Waits.</p><p>“I was deeply impressed by you, even when we were children,” Edelgard elaborates, with a gentle, fond smile that makes Felix sink into the chair. “I loved watching you play. Your passion, your raw talent, your constantly-evolving technique. I firmly believed you would be a great asset to the orchestra, and you have been—truly. You have far exceeded my expectations.”</p><p>Edelgard withdraws, then, leaning against her desk with a heavy sigh. “It’s been five years, my friend,” she says. “You’ve seen the world and what it has to offer, twice over. Tell me… Have you found what it is you were hoping to find?”</p><p>Felix doesn’t realize he’s curled his fingers into fists until he feels his nails bite crescent-shaped cuts into his palms. He closes his eyes and stretches his fingers, waits for the ache in his tendons to subside. He despises someone preaching at him, pretending they know him, pretending to <em> know </em> what’s best for him. Especially after luring him into a false sense of security by <em> reminiscing</em>.</p><p>Felix wants to retch.</p><p>“An asset, am I? Renew my contract, then,” he snaps, and rises from the chair, violin case in hand. “This is a waste of time. We’re done here.”</p><p>“You’re slipping.”</p><p>Felix flinches. Edelgard might as well have reached out and slapped him clear across the face, for all that his body reacts: ears ringing, mouth dry, face hot.</p><p>“Do you know how many mistakes you made in Nuvelle last month? Four. Four mistakes in <em> one </em> performance, when your record thus far had been one mistake for every <em> five."</em> </p><p>With disappointment and concern creasing her forehead, Edelgard says, “It’s plain to see that your heart isn’t in it anymore. And if I’ve noticed, your audience most certainly will—if they haven’t already.”</p><p>Felix drags a hand over his face. “I don’t—”</p><p>Edelgard holds up a hand, and a wave of humiliation floods Felix's gut when his body betrays him, acquiesces.</p><p>“Even when we lie to ourselves, our instruments tell the truth,” she says. “Listen to yours. Learn <em> your </em> truth.”</p><p>Felix massages his temples in an attempt to stave off the migraine that’s brewing, a storm cloud rolling up from the base of his skull.</p><p>Edelgard takes another step, deeper into his space. “I want to help you. Truly, I do,” she says. “But I can only do that if—”</p><p>“Save it.” Felix stares past her. “Am I fired?” he asks, “Or not?”</p><p>Edelgard rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Felix,” she mutters. “I simply want you to take some time, reassess. If you decide to stay on with us after that, I promise I will do everything I can to help you move past this.”</p><p>Felix swallows the lump in his throat. “What about the performance?” he asks.</p><p>Edelgard places a hand on his arm, the paleness of her skin stark against his black sweater. Felix doesn’t move, just stares at it until she withdraws. “I will make the necessary arrangements,” she says. “In the meantime, you are still welcome to join us for rehearsal.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Felix grumbles. “I’ll do that.”</p><p>After taking another moment to center himself, Felix yanks open the door to find Hubert leaning against the opposite wall, the nosy fuck. After shooting him a particularly nasty scowl—which Hubert replies to in kind—Felix makes his way towards the stairs, hoping against hope the tension holding him together won’t bleed too profusely into his fingertips.</p><p>♬♬♬</p><p>To the surprise of no one, rehearsal is an exquisite clusterfuck. </p><p>When he finally trudges out of the concert hall at half past 10 o’clock—eight hours after he arrived—Felix is Done™. The muscles connecting his shoulders to his neck are so taut, so tender, it’s as if someone pulverized them with a meat tenderizer. He hisses as he tugs on his motorcycle helmet and latches it under his chin.</p><p>It takes ten minutes for Felix to get home, i.e.: a studio apartment tucked away in the shopping district skirting downtown Enbarr. It’s an old space, years of ancient history lurking within its walls. It’s also on the third floor, above an upscale clothier, and on nights like tonight Felix wonders why he didn’t pick a place with a goddamn elevator.</p><p>Spending countless hours rehearsing is the norm for Felix when the Enbarr Philharmonic Orchestra is home for the winter. During the spring and summer, they’re traveling to a new city every week—sometimes two cities in a week—all while operating on questionable amounts of caffeine and the adrenaline that comes with playing in a new venue, in front of a new audience. </p><p>At first, Felix loved it. Traveling, being part of an ensemble, all of the unique challenges that came with both. He absorbed every experience like a sponge, from the rush he’d get from guest musicians coming up to him before a performance, either to offer him constructive critique or praise his technique, to the thundering applause of an audience. And even though he'd never admit it, he enjoyed the attention. It focused him, drove him to improve, push his limits; knowing someone he’d never met was watching him and was impressed by him, his violin.</p><p>And if Felix takes a second to slow down and take stock like Edelgard wants him to, he’d be forced to admit the last time he enjoyed a performance was last spring. Since then it’s been a slog, the days and weeks and months blurring together as he tries to just survive.</p><p>And fuck, does that piss Felix off like nothing else. He’s wracked his brain over and over trying to figure out what changed. Why, no matter the hours he spends refining his technique and learning new pieces, at the end of the day he’s moving backwards.</p><p>It’s infuriating, terrifying, the idea that Edelgard is right, that whatever is holding Felix back is tangled up in the hot fucking mess he left behind in Fhirdiad. <em> But if that’s true </em> , he reasons as he turns the key in his apartment door, <em> wouldn’t I have hit a wall sooner? Why </em>now?</p><p>Glenn would know. He was always good at…at <em> this </em> kind of thing, at getting to the root of the problem and coming up with a gameplay to fix it. Maybe that’s because, unlike Felix, Glenn was patient. Thorough. Insightful.</p><p>What Felix wouldn’t give, to be able to call his brother now, and ask him <em> why.</em></p><p>Before he can torture himself with that thought any more, Felix’s phone vibrates. He lets it ring as he lets himself inside the dark of his apartment. If it’s important, whoever it is will either shoot him a text, leave a voicemail or keep calling until Felix eventually picks up. </p><p>It’s strange. The only person who still calls Felix with any regularity is Sylvain, and his calls usually don’t come until two or three in the morning; courtesy of his pathetic excuse for a sleep schedule. How he manages to perform on a stage, functioning at maybe 78% efficiency on a good day, Felix will never know, but he does—<em> and </em> he’s wildly successful at it. The bastard.</p><p>Still, no matter what time it is, Felix always answers, and takes solace in the voice, the self-effacing chuckle of one of the few people he genuinely regrets leaving behind in Fhirdiad.</p><p>After unloading his bag, helmet and violin case onto the couch in the living room, Felix fishes out his phone…</p><p>Only to drop it face-first onto the hard-wood floor when he sees the name and number flashing across the screen.</p><p>“What the<em> fuck, </em>” Felix breathes as he bends down and picks it up. Heart in his throat, he inspects it for any damage but, thanks to the industrial hard-case Sylvain bought for him a lifetime ago, there doesn’t seem to be any.</p><p>Then Felix opens the unread text, and his heart leaves his throat—plummets into his stomach, heavy with dread.</p><p>old man (10:34 PM): Felix. Please call me back. </p><p>old man (10:35 PM): I’m afraid it’s urgent. </p><p>Felix has already pressed the green <em> Call </em> button and lifted the phone to his ear by the time his brain catches up. It’s only when his father’s voice fills his ear canal with an unbearably awkward, “Hello? Felix?” that he panics, aborting the call immediately.</p><p>Fuck. Fuck, fuck,<em> fuck </em>—</p><p>Rodrigue calls back a few seconds later, and—after weighing his limited options—Felix picks up on the fourth and final ring.</p><p>“Hey,” he says.</p><p>“Ah, Felix,” Rodrigue replies, sounding about as exhausted as Felix felt climbing up the stairs to his apartment. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”</p><p>After placing his phone on speaker and setting it on the counter, Felix grabs a wine glass from the cupboard and uncorks the half-empty bottle of Malbec from the night before. He doesn’t even bother leaving room at the top, because something in his gut tells him this conversation is going to be unbearable otherwise. </p><p>“Nope,” he replies, after draining half the glass in one go. He tilts his head back as the earthy finish coats his palate, cushions his mind with a thin layer of gauze. “Just got home.”</p><p>“Ah. I see,” Rodrigue replies. “I take it you didn’t listen to the message I left on your voicemail, then?”</p><p>Felix scoffs at the ceiling of his apartment. His heart is a rabbit trapped inside his chest, kicking at his ribcage, as desperate to escape his body as Felix is to escape this conversation. Still, even as his thumb hovers over the red <em> End Call </em> icon, he doesn’t press it. Rodrigue must have a damn good reason to call him after three years of radio silence. Not that Felix blames <em> him </em> for that—not when <em> Felix </em> was the one who rejected every call, deleted every voicemail until they stopped.</p><p>And what a hollow victory it was, a terrible echo of when <b><em>he</em></b> stopped trying, too.</p><p>Felix takes a generous sip of wine.</p><p>“Right,” Rodrigue murmurs, more than accustomed to answering his own questions where Felix is concerned. “Forgive me, but… I’ve missed you, Felix. It’s been far too long. Tell me, are you well?”</p><p><em> “Cut the shit, old man,” </em> is what Felix wants to say, <em> almost </em>says, except his father’s voice stops him: battered around the edges, with a thinness to his tone, lending to an uncharacteristic fragility that twists Felix’s stomach into knots.</p><p>It takes him a moment to parse together why. Rodrigue sounds the same as he did when he gave the eulogy at Glenn’s funeral. At least, what little of the eulogy Felix actually heard, before he escaped the stuffy, floral-scented confines of the chapel, the maddening cacophony of thinly-veiled grief closing in on him. Suffocating him.</p><p>“Well enough,” Felix says instead, pushing past the phantom ache of loss, heavy in his throat. “Tell me what’s going on.”</p><p>Rodrigue sighs into the phone and the sound is so viscerally nostalgic of every conversation Felix has ever had with his father, he can hardly stand it. He downs more wine, hopes it’ll ease the ache that now pervades his chest.</p><p>“It’s regarding Dimitri,” Rodrigue finally says, and there’s this pause, like he expects Felix to stop him right there. When it doesn’t come, he continues, albeit bracingly. “He’s in the hospital, being treated for severe dehydration following a prolonged manic episode.”</p><p>Felix might <em> have </em> stopped him, had he not forgotten how to breathe, how to speak. Five… No. Four years, ten months. That’s how long it’s been since Felix allowed himself to think of Dimitri, what Dimitri <em> meant </em>to him. What they meant to each other. The promises they made. </p><p><em> Idiots, </em> Felix thinks with a scowl. <em> We were such </em>idiots—</p><p>The sheer force of all the memories he’s tried so hard to suppress flooding his vision, <em> blinding </em> him, sends him reeling. Felix reaches for the edge of the countertop, nearly falls to his knees when his fingertips slip on granite. He catches himself with both hands, takes a deep breath, and lets himself <em> see </em>.</p><p>Dimitri, handsome and elegant as he sits at a grand piano, lithe fingers flying across the keys and drops of sweat clinging to his temple. Dimitri, his hair gleaming like polished gold under the stage lights. Dimitri, bathed in soft rays of sunlight streaming into Felix’s old bedroom, smiling that perfect crooked smile, as if nothing could possibly come between them, ruin them. Felix, smiling back.</p><p>The scene morphs into a nightmare and Felix swallows bile. Dimitri, lying unconscious in a hospital bed, his unwashed hair hanging limply about his lifeless face. Dimitri, hooked up to I.V. fluids and a steady morphine drip, chest and neck and arms wrapped in blood-stained bandages.</p><p>Dimitri, sitting motionless at his piano, staring down at the worn ivory keys. Felix standing behind him, suitcase in one hand and violin in the other.</p><p>“Sylvain found him in his apartment, more or less catatonic.” Rodrigue draws a shaky breath. “His MRI was consistent with chronic sleep deprivation, which is hardly a surprise. They currently have him sedated until he’s recovered enough to be transferred.”</p><p>It takes a long time before Felix trusts himself to speak.</p><p>“He was on meds for that,” he finds himself saying, his voice sounding far-away to his own ears, like it belongs to someone else. “Are you saying he…what? Stopped taking them?”</p><p>“I don’t know, Felix,” Rodrigue replies, slow and patient, and oh—Felix hates, hates,<em> hates </em>it when the old man does this, talks to him like he’s fucking twelve. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. According to his pharmacy’s records, he’s been filling his scripts every month, yet Sylvain couldn’t find any of his prescriptions in his apartment. Not even empty pill bottles.”</p><p>And just like that, something deep, deep inside of Felix <em> snaps. </em> Everything around him is tinged in varying degrees of red, blurred around the edges with static.</p><p>“I can’t believe this,” Felix mutters. Then, he does something he hasn’t done in months, not since his disastrous performance in Nuvelle—he reaches up, buries his hands in his hair and <em> yanks, </em> until his eyes prickle with hot tears. That time, Felix didn’t stop until he yanked out several fistfuls of hair, leaving an impossible-to-hide bald spot on the side of his head. The emergency undercut he gave himself is still growing back, a nauseating reminder of how, deep down, Felix is the same person he’s always been.</p><p>“You were supposed to keep an eye on him,” he says, voice hoarse. “I <em> asked </em> you to keep an eye on him."</p><p>Rodrigue doesn’t respond immediately to that, which only fuels the rage building in Felix, burning behind his eyelids.</p><p>“Felix—” </p><p>“Where the fuck <em> were </em> you?” Felix demands, his voice cracking, and fuck—he’s not sure if he’s talking to his father, or to himself.</p><p><em> Where the fuck was I? </em> Felix’s short, bitten-off nails scrabble desperately at his scalp, leaving raised welts that’ll smart come morning. <em> I should’ve been there. </em></p><p>And just like that, the life—the illusion of a life—Felix has meticulously built for himself over the last five years begins to crumble, giving way to all of the rotting memories beneath. He surveys his apartment, taking in the various program guides and books littering his coffee table, the hamper of clean clothes sitting by his bedroom door. The Polaroid of him, Bernadetta and Ferdinand taped to his bathroom mirror, taken on one of their summer trips to Almyra.</p><p>It’s so stupid, the idea that Felix could <em> actually </em> start over, when all he did was paint layer after layer over the existing, rust-caked paint, instead of doing the smart thing and stripping himself down first. Of course it would begin to chip away, sooner or later. </p><p>Of fucking <em> course.  </em></p><p>“I was here, Felix. Where I’ve always been,” Rodrigue says. Felix struggles to hear him over the roaring in his eardrums. “Felix, you must understand. Dimitri, he…went through a great deal of trouble, I believe, to keep us all in the dark about his condition. And since he’s been living alone—”</p><p>“What happened to Dedue?” Felix interjects. “Aren’t they roommates?”</p><p>“I’m afraid Dedue moved away last year,” Rodrigue replies. “He returned to Duscur, with his husband—Ashe. They got married almost three years ago, but Dedue was reluctant to leave Dimitri’s side until he was stable. Ashe was understanding, of course. Dimitri was the one to make the decision in the end, buying Dedue a plane ticket and packing his things while he was out of town." Rodrigue lets out a soft, tired scoff. "If it’s one thing that boy can’t abide, it’s being in the way of someone else’s happiness.”</p><p>Rodrigue is silent for a long, painful moment, and then he lets out another sigh. “I truly have been a terrible father,” he says. “To both of you. I’m sorry, Felix.”  </p><p>The wine and lack of dinner hits Felix full-force when he stands up from the kitchen table. He sways as he moves, and when he reaches his bed, he drops his phone down on his nightstand. After flicking on a lamp, he lowers himself into a sitting position on the edge, feet planted firmly on the carpeted floor, elbows on his knees, heels of his palms pressed hard against his eyelids.</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous. You weren’t the only one he had fooled,” Felix grumbles. “Dedue never would’ve moved out, if he thought Dimitri was at risk for a relapse. I’m sure of it.”</p><p>“Indeed,” Rodrigue agrees. “I’d like to believe that, as well.”</p><p>Felix unlaces one boot, pulls it off and flings it across the room. </p><p>“So,” he says. “Let me get this straight. You want me to come home and piece the boar back together after he’s taken great care to tear himself apart. Just so he can…what? Do it again in a few months? Well, sorry to break it to you, but—”</p><p>“Enough, Felix,” Rodrigue snaps, and Felix clenches his jaw shut. “I only called because Dimitri asked for you. Multiple times. He’s been in and out of consciousness, yet<em> you </em> are the one he summoned the strength to ask for.” </p><p>Rodrigue swallows, audibly. “Whatever your feelings toward him might be at this stage, I thought you had a right to know.”</p><p>Felix’s phone vibrates once, twice—three times. After the cold shock at Rodrigue’s words thaws, he glances over, picks it up when he sees Sylvain’s contact photo pop up on the dim screen.</p><p>sylvain (11:23 PM):  hey i tried calling earlier but the signal here is shit</p><p>sylvain (11:24 PM): dimitri is uh</p><p>sylvain (11:24 PM): hes. pretty fucked up, fe.</p><p>sylvain (11:24 PM): he keeps talking to glenn (????) in his sleep. or his dad?? idk dude its rlly hard to see him like this. he asked where u were a few times. ingrid and i are here with him</p><p>sylvain (11:24 PM): have u talked to ur dad yet??</p><p>“Get some rest, son,” Rodrigue says, startling Felix, and he nearly drops his phone on his face. When did he lay down? “We’ll talk in the morning.”</p><p>“Sure, whatever,” Felix mumbles as he types back a response to Sylvain. Then, the line is dead, and Felix takes a deep breath. Lets it out.</p><p>me (11:29 PM): unfortunately, yes</p><p>sylvain (11:30 PM): lmfao. gotcha</p><p>sylvain (11:30 PM): so. u gonna come home or??</p><p>sylvain (11:31 PM): ngl it would be awesome to see u!!</p><p><em> Home, huh? </em>Felix drags the frayed sleeve of his sweater across his face to dry it, then taps out another message. </p><p>Dimitri <em> asked </em> for him.</p><p>Once, years ago, when Felix was drunk enough to ask, Sylvain said that every now and then, Dimitri would ask if Felix was well…and that’s it. According to Sylvain, he never asked where Felix was, what he was doing, if he was still playing the violin. Just a simple—and here Sylvain did an impeccable impression of Dimitri’s infuriatingly polite tone—“Is Felix well?” </p><p>Felix groans into his pillow.</p><p>me (11:34 PM): edelgard basically suspended me so. might as well. at least for a bit</p><p>me (11:35 PM): had some stuff i wanted to pick up anyway</p><p>sylvain (11:35 PM): ...…wait what do u mean “suspended”</p><p>sylvain (11:35 PM): are u like. a rogue violinist now</p><p>me (11:35 PM): idk. one second she’s asking if i want a raise, the next she’s telling me i need to figure my shit out Or Else</p><p>me (11:35 PM): whatever. i’ll catch the noon bullet train to fhirdiad tomorrow.</p><p>sylvain (11:35 PM): cool beans</p><p>sylvain (11:36 PM): i’ll pick u up at the station :D</p><p>Felix is still tipsy—his head swims as he forces himself up into a sitting position again. He feels like he’s moving underwater, slow and imprecise. Finally, when his head hits the pillow, he cocoons himself securely into his sheets. Within seconds he’s nodding off, his father’s long-suffering sigh echoing in his ears.</p><p>That night, for the first time in a very long time, Felix dreams.</p><p>♬♬♬</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so uhHHHH /sweats,, this was originally intended for the dmlx big bang but sylvain decided to join in the Fun™ and tbh i didn't have the heart to tell him to gtfo :)) thank you SO MUCH to linn and rinoa for beta-ing this, y'all are absolute rockstars ♥︎</p><p>my current plan is for this to be 5-6 chapters but that depends on 1) how long it takes for felix to get his shit together and 2) how self-indulgent i am with the smut. also, <b>fair warning:</b> i will not be posting on a set schedule, and as of right now it is not complete. that being said, i hope it's a fun read, because it's been fun as hell to write! if you notice any glaring errors in the music references, please tell me! i'm an amateur musician and don't know Shit about being a member of a professional orchestra, but i've done a fair amount of research and i hope that shines through.</p><p>thank you for reading!! feel free to hmu on twitter: @candy_harlot</p></blockquote></div></div>
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